


Humanity - OR - The Best Laid Plans

by Erukai



Series: United Comics Universe [5]
Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical Figures, Historical References, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Nazi Hunter Erik Lehnsherr, Origin Story, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erukai/pseuds/Erukai
Summary: Unexplained phenomena. A nervous young man. Tuviah Friedman. A dream. A demonstration. Police ruin everything. An auspicious meeting. Innermost thoughts. Forging a bond. A very polite prison break. A promise to meet again. A broken man. Easy way of making money. A sob in an airport. The past caught-up.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: United Comics Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664020





	Humanity - OR - The Best Laid Plans

Even before the case was mysteriously sealed, and then forgotten, a few days later, the police made no headway into the investigation of the phenomena that occurred on the night of May 4th, 1983, in and around the area surrounding Saint Peter’s Hospital in Albany, New York. The event lasted for five minutes, though residual effects were still being reported up to thirty-eight hours later, and although the most severe cases were localized entirely within the immediate area surrounding the hospital, cases were discovered to have occurred within the timeframe of the event across nine counties and two state lines. The entirety of the event was recorded on the hospital’s CCTV cameras, as well as a tape recorder being played with by the patient in 11B, and yet no copies of these tapes survived; save for one, though the police were unaware of this.

The facts of the phenomenon were as follows:

On the night of May 4th, 1983, at precisely 8:11 PM, everyone on the grounds of Saint Peter’s Hospital, patient and staff, human and nonhuman alike, began wailing and sobbing uncontrollably. After a minute, the wailing had transformed into an anguished, raging scream, and several patients and nurses were reported to have begun tearing apart the furniture, destroying anything that they could get their hands on. Thirteen people attempted to throw themselves from hospital windows with little success. As shown on the one surviving tape, the symptoms were not localized to the conscious, with an entire ward of comatose patients suddenly screaming, though all machinery registered them as still quite asleep.

When the last of the wailing subsided, at 8:16 PM, a call was immediately put in to the Albany Police, as well as the Center for Disease Control, whose own investigation concluded that this had not been the result of a biological agent. This investigation, too, was eventually sealed and forgotten.

At 8:10 that night, another event occurred which the police and other investigators had failed to realize was the source of everything else that followed, including the eventual closure and erasure of the investigations themselves. It was mundane, something which happened all of the time.

A patient woke up in his hospital bed, recovering from surgery.

The patient, a white male fifty-two years of age and of average health, had undergone emergency surgery following an automobile accident, though the damage done to the patient’s spinal column had been beyond repair. The prognosis was lifelong total paralysis below the waist.

His name was Charles Xavier.

When the last of the anesthesia had worn off, Charles awoke in unfamiliar surroundings, unable to feel his legs, and with only a haze of memory as to what brought him there. In terror, he looked around the room for the one face he so desperately needed to see, the one anchor to normal he might still have left.

When he had found himself alone, it was 8:11 PM, and he began to scream.

Charles Xavier screamed with over eight thousand voices.

* * *

The sun was hot and the café fans seemed to only make the air hotter, the tea, while cold, far too sweet to be enjoyed properly.

He sat there, souring by the minute.

Sweat glued his collar to his neck, which was beginning to ache from how often he kept turning it, but the door remained open and unblocked. He took another sip of tea and stuck out his tongue, dropping the glass back onto the table.

It would help if the buzzing would go away.

Not that it ever did.

“Max.”

Max stood up upon being addressed, taking the other man’s hand in his own and giving it a firm shake. Whatever annoyance he had been feeling upon waiting for so long dissipated into an anxious cloud.

“Tuviah.” He shuffled through his bag as they both sat down. “I brought the photos you requested, as well as some of their correspondence.”

“Good. Hand them over.”

Tuviah looked over each photograph hungrily, his eyes devouring every detail before he tore through the mail, running his finger along the words as if he could feel out their meaning and any other meaning that lay beneath. It was a hunger that Max understood, that he, too, felt, which was why he respected the man so much.

Though, not so much as to admit to everything.

It was always hard to know which lines which men wouldn’t cross.

“Excellent,” Tuviah sighed, going over the photographs again, “He’s grown a beard and put on some weight, but that’s undeniably Krieger.” He smiled, canines flashing. “Thank you, for this. I’ll pass this on.”

“Will they act on it?” Max asked.

A couple of men at the bar began laughing, and he could not be certain why. He certainly had not overheard any joke pass between the two of them, and a quick glance about the room suggested that nothing hilarious had occurred within eyesight. His thumb played over his ring, his tongue planted in his cheek as he checked again.

Something was passing between them.

Paper.

A magazine, perhaps?

Dirty, most likely.

He hoped.

He kept an eye on them.

If Tuviah minded, he did not show it. His demeanor remained casual, as ever, though he gave Max a moment to act through his urges.

“It’s the Mossad, Max,” he chided, filing the photographs and letters into a briefcase, “They go after everything.”

“Yes, but will they _get_ him.”

Tuviah looked at him soberly.

“All willing, yes. And Eichmann, and Mengele, and Schmidt, and all of the others. Their sun will set, make no mistake of that.”

Max nodded, placing a hand to his forehead. When had everything become so clammy?

Tuviah rose to leave.

“Wait,” Max pleaded, rising. “I’m sorry, b-but… Could I… possibly…”

His mouth felt dry. Even the tea seemed appealing now.

“Do they accept volunteers? N-Not for the whole thing, just for… just for these jobs, do—do you think that I could possibly join? Just one. J-Just Krieger, please.”

Several pairs of eyes were on him, now. He could feel their stares burning into his neck, hotter than the sun. He tried to listen in to what was being said, though the buzzing was too loud now for that. Music and laughter and whispers all drowned out the world together.

He breathed through his nose, hot and fast, though slower with every breath.

He still felt the ring against his thumb, cool and constant.

The sun still beat down.

His tongue still tasted too sweet.

He breathed slowly now and gave a wan smile.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, ruffling his own hair, “I…There’s no excuse.”

“It’s fine, Max,” Tuviah said, placing a gentle hand upon his bicep, “I understand.

“And, look, I cannot promise anything… But I’ll make some calls. I’ll be in contact, alright?”

Max waited a while before he left the café, too, certain that he’d see a tail emerge at any moment and trail Tuviah down the nearest street. For a moment, he considered and worried that he might miss someone coming from the street, itself, but the vantage point provided to him by the café left little chance of that. When nothing came, he tried, and failed, to finish his tea and then departed.

He liked Haifa well enough. About as much as any other city, really. He could probably do for a change in the weather, and there were still far too many people about to feel fully comfortable, but he was not about to let his mind contemplate the opposite.

Still, the day stretched out menacingly before him. He had accomplished everything already, and it was only just past noon. Nervous energy ached in his legs, the kind that spoke of running toward dangerous things. Things he shouldn’t tempt himself with.

Not until he knew for sure that he’d get away with it.

Crowds.

He hated them, but he needed a crowd right now.

That’d let him focus.

That’d keep him from being alone.

Crowds.

Dust stained his trousers as he beat a fast trail through the city toward the more congested areas. In time, a sea breeze cooled his rapidly-burning face, and it was not too much longer before he found a crowd both to his purpose and to his liking.

If he had been more aware of current events, he might have even added this to his itinerary.

Max settled in amongst the people at the back of the congregation as the speaker continued from the podium.

“I have here in my hands,” the speaker shouted, the translator struggling to keep up for the few non-Hebrew speakers in attendance, “An article recently published in the New England Journal of Medicine. The paper is authored by a Doctor Edgar Edley and co-authored by one Nathaniel Essex. I will not bore you with the details, but instead get right to the point.

“’Analysis of the afflicted’s blood has revealed surprising commonalities that cannot be explained away by mere random genetic abnormality, nor is there any evidence to support any viral infection present in any of their bloodstreams, and certainly no contagion which can have so large a scale and yet afflict so little of the population. It is therefore indisputable that these rare cases that we are seeing develop in countries all over the world are not, as previously believed, unassociated, indefinable, and isolated cellular mutations but are, in point of fact, the emergence of a new species wholly divergent from humanity. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to classify this new species as _homo xenos_ and which my colleague has fondly referred to as ‘x-men.’’”

The speaker drew a lighter, his enraged face illuminated by the fire’s glow.

“ _This_ ,” he said, burning the publication, “Is our death knell, my friends. The moment that this becomes scientific fact, we are all doomed. Because this? This gives them every excuse they need to dehumanize us. This means that we are not the same as them, and we have _all_ seen what happens when you are not an ‘us’ but a ‘them.’ We have to fight this with everything we’ve got. We have to shout it so loud that we cannot be ignored. For the sake of our own humanity. We are _not_ ‘X-Men.’ We are Mutants. And we are Human. _We are Mutants. And we are Human! We are Mutants! And we are Human!_ ”

The chant worked its way throughout the crowd. It rose in intensity and in pitch so that it had a presence and a life wholly separate from those that birthed it. The wall of sound pressed against the crowd, smothering in its intensity and heat, but the chant continued.

“ _We are Mutants! And we are Human!_ ”

In multiple tongues, the chant repeated, louder and louder with each repetition.

Heads began to turn.

Authorities which had previously been begrudgingly tolerant of the demonstration now began to creep closer. Max saw them approach. He thought to slink away, to find shelter, but by this point the crowd had turned from the speaker and the stage and toward the oncoming danger, so that Max found himself not safely at the rear but now center amongst the frontlines. Panic began to flash through his body; other bodies pressed against his. The crowd was moving now, still chanting their refrain.

“ _WE ARE MUTANTS! AND WE ARE HUMAN!_ ”

As he braced himself for what was to come, Max saw from the corner of his eye a handsome young man snake his way through the crowd to the front, coiffed locks bouncing. He moved with a deliberate swagger, quite removed from the danger that was brewing around them, and as he approached the police he offered a smug smile and lowered his spectacles, gazing directly into their eyes.

And he began to chat.

Over the roar of the crowd, Max could not make out any of the words, but he was certain that the young man was speaking in deliberate, calm tones, perfectly congenial from the way he was standing and from his dry, little laugh which carried despite the noise. And, to Max’s astonishment, the police seemed to, by degrees, grow calmer, until it appeared that they had not come to break up a demonstration but only to have a familiar, pleasant chat with an old acquaintance.

And then the bottle was thrown, catching the young man about the temple.

As he swooned, it was like the coming of the tide. All of the rage and fear that had vanished from the officers came flooding back, and within moments they had removed their clubs and began to beat back those demonstrators that had dared get too close. Other officers arrived, too, and with them other crowds. Two waves of bodies crashed against each other, Max in the middle, and although he attempted to fight, to punch, to bite, to claw his way to freedom, it was only a few minutes before the chaos had engulfed him and, with a club against the back of his skull, he was laid-out upon the ground and the world had turned black.

* * *

Despite the hour, the cell maintained the day’s long, withering heat, so that Max’s dreams were filled with familiar nightmares and familiar faces. He awoke sweating, though only half so much from the heat, and gazed about him, teeth clenched.

There were only a dozen or so of them cramped together in this cell, most of them sprawled out or curled up, sleeping off what pains they might have gained from the demonstration, or drunkenness as appeared to be the case for a few.

Max winced, skull aching.

He attempted to stand, relieved to find that his legs still functioned, and crawled over the other inmates to the small, barred window.

The middle of the night, most likely, or coming close to early morning.

He leaned against the stone wall and sighed, deeply, his shoulders sagging and his body slumped. How had it come to this? And what did this mean for his relationship with Tuviah and the others? Certainly, they couldn’t deny him the chance over so small an incident. Could they? His breathing gradually grew more haggard.

“Y’know,” a voice slurred from the floor, “This isn’t quite a hangover, but it might as well be, and you are thinking _way_ too loud. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Max turned to see the same young man from earlier unfold himself from the floor. He seemed happy to find his ruby-colored spectacles undamaged and so he placed them before his squinting eyes before he bothered to look at Max, looking for all of the world like a drunkard awakening after a particularly-bad bender.

Max narrowed his eyes.

“…Sorry,” he managed after some time, leaning against the wall, “I’ll look out for that. Your accent: English?”

“American, thank you,” the man corrected, feeling around his pockets. When he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, he began to dig around amongst the sleepers’ possessions, “Born in France. Raised in England. Moved. In short, a full-blooded American. _Ah_.”

With a look of absolute triumph, he removed a flask from one of the sleeping drunks and began to imbibe, sighing deeply even as he drank. He placed a hand to his forehead and doubled-over, letting out a soft moan.

“ _Oh_ , that’s so much better…”

“So,” Max said, “You’re a drunk.”

“ _No_ ,” the other man insisted, “I just drink. A lot. Practically every day. _Medicinal_ purposes, mind you, perfectly on the up-and-up.” He took another swig before offering the flask to Max.

“I…don’t drink.”

“Not with strangers, you mean,” the man corrected, face a bit smug, “Well, suit yourself. Just know, I won’t wait up for you…” He made a show of taking the flask to his lips before pausing several times to await Max’s sudden reversal; it never came, leaving the man to shrug and begin drinking alone once more.

Max furrowed his brow.

“Who…are you?”

“Name’s— _urp_ —Charles,” he said, pausing to swallow a particularly-large gulp, “Charles Xavier.” He reached out his hand for Max to shake. “I’m the man you want to kiss.”

Max’s cheeks instantly flushed.

“W-What did yo—”

“Oh, really, I’m quite flattered,” Charles persisted, smiling broadly, “Truly, I am. For you to be thinking such thoughts about me, and we’ve only just met? I mean, really, you must be some sort of rascal. Scoundrel, maybe.”

Behind the rose-colored glass, Max was certain Charles’ eyes traced his whole body. He folded inwardly, bringing his arms around himself like a shield.

“I…I do not know what—”

“Come off it, no need to be a prude, man,” Charles said, laying back onto his elbows. “I mean, I’m not about to jump into bed with you right now or anything, but I am certainly flattered that you would think so.”

“And why exactly not?” Max shot back. He drew his lips inward, biting down on them hard. He regretted the words immediately, and was not entirely certain why he said them.

Charles seemed rather pleased with himself.

“Well,” he said, sauntering with his words, “With an attitude like that, maybe…”

He held his head as he shook out his hair, waves bouncing in the soft moonlight. Max, although he hadn’t wanted to admit it, _was_ thinking certain thoughts, but they weren’t at the forefront of his mind. At least, they _hadn’t_ been until Charles said something. Now, looking at the man and the position he was in…

Max shifted his stance, scowling.

“As for what I’m doing here,” Charles said, continuing on as though the conversation had not veered toward thoughts of moonlight rendezvous, “Well, I’m supposed to be on ‘paid leave.’ Which is supposed to mean that I’m off on holiday somewhere, but I guess I can’t help myself. I see a lost cause and I go running— _zip!_ —straight toward it.”

He held out a hand, gesturing toward it with his chin when Max did not immediately understand that he was seeking assistance in getting up off of the floor. Max still regarded Charles with a cautious air—distracted, as he might have been—but eventually conceded, taking the man’s hand.

“Cheers,” Charles said with a smile that could sink men’s thoughts, “And what, exactly, are you doing here, my friend. Unless you want me to just go looking for the answers mys—”

“ _No_ ,” Max said forcefully enough for Charles to be physically taken aback. Max scowled, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. “No,” he repeated, more gently, “No, thank you. I would very much like my mind to be my own.”

“Fair enough. Sorry for the, er, little _traipse_ , earlier. Won’t happen again.”

Max grunted.

“So,” Charles began, offering the flask once more, “What brings you to town?”

“Killing Nazis.”

Charles dropped the flask, though he did not notice when it didn’t hit the floor and instead appeared in Max’s hand. Max gave it a critical look before giving in.

“ _Shit_ ,” Charles hissed, “Truly?”

Max nodded.

“Wow,” Charles breathed, steadying himself against the wall, “I…I don’t think I’ve ever met…”

He readjusted his glasses.

“So…are you with the Mossad, then?”

Max looked at Charles and then down at the flask, swirling its contents dully. He considered all that had transpired over the previous day. He was confident that he had done good work in gathering the intelligence on Krieger, but he could not be so confident that this most recent development would be overlooked. More to the point, he wasn’t certain if they could forgive…

“No,” he answered soberly at last, taking another drink.

“But you want to be,” Charles added.

The look that Max gave him was enough to set a man ablaze. Charles threw up his hands.

“I didn’t look, honest!” he protested, smiling sheepishly, “It was intuition, not telepathy, I swear!”

Max growled before his expression softened, his whole face sagging. He looked away from Charles and out toward the moon, obscured as it was. Long shadows passed over them both.

“I don’t,” Max said at last, turning back to Charles, “Not particularly. I just want to be a part of whatever group is actually getting things _done_. _Handling_ them. Whether it’s Mossad or something else, it doesn’t matter, so long as…” He sighed, closing his eyes. Quickly, he began to slow his breath again, which had begun to quicken, and focus his mind toward the feel of the flask against his fingertips and the sound of the sleepers’ steady breathing, and the smell of Charles and…

Color returned to his cheeks, lightly. He returned the flask.

“I suppose that makes me rather monstrous to you, doesn’t it?” Max said. He tried to hide the desperation from his voice and from himself.

Charles looked at him squarely.

“We—el,” he began, gesticulating with the flask, “I cannot in good faith condone the taking of another life.” Max nodded. It was about as much as he expected, from Charles or from any other man, really. His thumb played against the ring. He supposed that was as much as he deserved, now.

“On the other hand,” Charles continued, catching Max’s attention, “…Fuck ‘em, am I right?”

He grinned toothily from ear-to-ear.

Max, unable to hide his own surprise, eventually returned the smile.

“Yes,” he agreed, “’Fuck ‘em.’”

When the first rays of sunlight began to creep into the cell, Max was quite surprised to find that he and Charles had continued speaking throughout the remainder of the night. The conversation had grown more casual from those first few tense exchanges, though his mind could never wander too far from what Charles had, correctly, accused him of.

Unfortunately, he never brought it up again.

“Ah, _finally_ ,” Charles groaned, rising to his feet as a door creaked open down the corridor. Max, who had taken to sitting down beside him on the floor, gazed up at him as he leaned his whole body against the bars; it would have been accurate to say that Max was, as he might have done with a fine work of art, _admiring_ the architecture. “ _Yoo-hoo_!” Charles called, “ _Guard!_ ”

A man appeared at the head of the corridor.

“Ah, thank God,” Charles sighed, smiling fiendishly, “Yes, you. Hello. Excuse me, but let us out, please? Er, not everyone, just my friend and myself. Be a dear and do so quickly, yes? That’s a lamb…”

His movements a bit too precise to have been called human, the guard marched up the corridor, one hand still clutching a file folder while the other nimbly removed the keys from his belt. His eyes looked as though a fog had passed over them, and they moved rapidly, the way Max had seen when someone’s eyelids had been peeled back while they slept.

The key turned in the lock with a heavy _CLUNK_.

“Thank you _so much_ ,” Charles said, confidently striding out of the cell. Max stood upon the threshold, gazing about. He was certain there had to be another witness, some form of surveillance, _something_. He kept his hands away from the bars, just in case.

“ _Come on_ ,” Charles hissed after him. As he did not immediately begin to move, Max was pleased to find that it had not been an order. Tentatively, he took one probing step beyond the confines of the cell.

Nothing happened.

With a deep breath, he stepped the rest of the way out, the guard closing the door behind him.

“Very good,” Charles cooed at the guard, “Oh, and might I ask, is that the report on everything yesterday? It _is_? May I see it, please? Oh, I can? Why, _thank you_.”

Charles leafed through the pages, muttering softly to himself. He gave out a sharp “ _Aha!_ ” when he found what he had apparently been searching for, handing the rest of the file back to the jailer.

“Oh, and do make sure to make a correction to these pages, will you? There weren’t thirteen men in there last night, only eleven. Right? Right. That’s a good man.”

Charles patted him on the cheek before beckoning for Max to follow.

They stepped out into the cool dawn, descending a short stoop of stairs before Charles stopped a passerby on the street.

“Excuse me, sir? Yes, you. Might I trouble you for a light?”

The man, evidently a smoker, produced a lighter posthaste, his own eyes growing foggy.

“Thank _you_ ,” Charles cooed as he took the thing and, with a single flick, burnt the stolen papers to ashes. The wind scattered what remained away. “Oh, and do remember to have a puff or two, won’t you? You’ve earned it.”

Max watched the man continue on his way up the street, removing a cigarette from a silver case and lighting it, almost as though he were following the direction of some invisible script. He turned back to Charles; he was almost surprised to see him still standing there.

“ _So_ …” Charles said, scrunching up his face, “…Breakfast?”

“You,” Max began when they had finally arrived back at his hostel, “Are rather world-traveled, yes? You just seem to have that air about you."

“I have _been around_ as it were,” Charles conceded, though his tone suggested a rather different meaning than the one Max had been implying. He grimaced before pressing on.

“I need to know: in all of your travels, have you ever found a woman?”

“Oh! Well, I am not _usually_ the sort to kiss and tell, but…”

Max cursed under his breath.

“It is my fault. I should have chosen my words carefully. I am looking for a specific woman. Dark skinned, scars on her face. An intense look to her eyes. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

Charles’ face drooped. It was clear that he had been rather hoping the conversation would have continued on about more salacious things but, seeing the expression on Max’s face, he sighed and adopted a more sober demeanor.

“Dark skin, scars, and an intense look…Well, can’t say as I have, dear boy. I have the feeling that if I had seen whomever you’re talking about, I would remember them instantly. I’m sorry,” he said, placing a consoling hand upon Max’s shoulder. For his own part, Max only sagged a little. It was another disappointment, to be sure, but one that he had been expecting at least. “Might I ask,” Charles continued, “Why are you looking for this woman? What’s she to you?”

“She’s the one who saved me from Hell.”

“I…didn’t think you lot believed in Hell…”

“We didn’t. And then we were sent there.”

Charles’ eyes widened with understanding.

“I…see.” He reached out again to providing another consoling touch, but withered before he made contact, grimacing. He rubbed at the back of his head before speaking again. “If…If she still exists, you’ll find her.”

Max scoffed.

“I have been tracking her down for eleven years now with no luck. Why should my fortunes change now?”

“Because,” Charles said, tugging on his lapels, “You never had me before, did you?”

Max let out a wry chuckle.

“Yes, I…I suppose that’s right. Thank you.”

Before they could say anything more, the man at the front desk shuffled over to them.

“Excuse me, but this letter was left for you.”

Max took it in shaking hands. Although it was plain and unmarked, he knew exactly who it came from. Trepidation showing, he tore open the envelope and began to read its contents.

His mouth dropped open.

“What?” Charles asked. “What is it?”

“…I’ve been approved,” Max breathed, gazing into the distance. “I…I honestly didn’t think they would…”

Although Max could not hear it, Charles muttered under his breath, “ _Yes, I know…_ ”

Max read the letter over again, certain that he had missed something crucial. Perhaps his mind had only filled in the answer he wanted to hear; your mind had a tendency of playing tricks on you, after all. And yet, here it was, even on the third time.

“I’m to depart at once. They’re moving on him today, I…I have to…”

Although he had been smiling, when he looked up from the letter and at Charles’ face, his look quickly became crestfallen. The energy which had been building in his body quickly dissipated, so much so that his limbs now felt heavy and useless.

He had to leave.

“I…” Max began, frowning, “I am sorry. I _have_ to do this. I—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Charles said, patting Max on the cheek, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to waste this on me, anyway. Go…take care of things.”

Max looked back at the letter.

There really was no choice. Between ridding the world of yet another monster, or…?

He wasn’t certain if the decision would have been harder or easier if he knew exactly what the other choice would lead to. His frown deepened.

“I…wish to see you again,” Max admitted, painful as it might have been to. “I-I’m sorry, I…”

“I do, too,” Charles said, shaking his head. “Oh, don’t be so glum, dear-heart. I’m not that hard to find. Tell you what, when this is over, have your new friends arrange for transportation to New York, hmm? Look me up at Columbia. Trust me, you’ll find me there.”

To make matters easier, Charles, albeit awkwardly, gave Max a hug before turning to depart.

“Wait!” Max called, “How will you know it’s me? I never gave you my name…”

Charles tapped his temple.

“You never had to, remember? Ah, but…”

He paused, turning back to face Max.

“I did promise to not use that on you again. So, why don’t we start over, shall we?”

He extended out his hand, a wry smirk twisting across his face.

“Hi, I’m Charles Xavier.”

Without hesitation, Max took it, enveloping Charles’ hand with both of his own.

“Maximillian Eisenhardt. A pleasure to meet you, Charles.”

* * *

He held his face in his hands and did not remove them for quite some time.

He felt…dirty, and not just for what he had done to get the dinars, though there was something so shameful about the act that he simply couldn’t shake. Perhaps it was just the good Orthodox boy buried deep down, or perhaps it was that…that…

That that was the first time in decades without Charles.

There he must be, lying in some hospital bed in unspeakable agony, and here he was spilling his seed for some cash on the other side of the globe. Maybe if he had gotten any pleasure from it, he would have that to hang onto, at least; instead, the whole thing just felt…

Dirty.

Awkward.

Wrong.

Even while so sterile. Perhaps that was a part of it, as though the truth had been plastered over. The natural processes and desires of the body replaced with charts and diagrams. A small room, some magazines, but otherwise just another clinic.

He closed his eyes again.

If he had had a better grasp of Serbian, he probably would have heard the announcement and thus not missed his flight. As it was, when he at last rose up from his melancholic stupor, he was greeted with the rude awakening that he would have to buy another ticket for another flight. Which likely meant that he’d have to stay in Sokovia another few hours, at the least.

Max slumped back down into the chair and was not surprised to find that his hands were shaking. He gritted his teeth and steadied his nerves.

This had been his choice, after all. He could have stayed.

He _should_ have stayed.

And now, there would have to be consequences.

He sobbed quietly.

To his great shock, a hand, apparently meaning to be comforting, was placed on his own.

He jerked it away immediately.

The woman appeared hurt, but only momentarily, before affecting a soft smile.

“Forgive me,” she said, bowing her head a little, “I did not intend to startle you. I simply wanted to express condolences.”

Max narrowed his eyes.

“’Condolences?’ What do you mean? For what?”

“Why,” she said, as though the answer was obvious, “For whatever it is that has left you crying so. I thought that much… But, ah, I see. You are worried that I know _why_ you are crying, yes? That you are being watched?”

Max was not in the mood for this. His fist clenched and he had not stopped regarding the woman with suspicion. Perhaps it was the way she was holding herself, or some affect in her speech. Every part of him, those animalistic, base parts which he trusted over anything else, were screaming that this woman was dangerous.

He was fortunate to have so much metal around, then.

Play the diplomat, but keep one hand on the dagger…

“A telepath?” Max asked, relaxing his shoulders a fraction.

She shook her head with a sad smile.

“No, and I sorely pity those that are. No, it would be more accurate to say that I… live or die by my intuition, hmm? And that I see a certain… kinship, perhaps? An edge, sharpened by pain. Loss. Betrayal.”

She smiled, showing off a row of immaculate teeth.

“Do tell me if I am wildly off-base, good sir.”

Max spread his mouth into a thin line.

“No,” he said at last, “No, you are…correct, in your assumptions. Now, what is it that you _want_ , Miss…?”

“Darkhölme,” she responded, “Though I would be delighted if you would call me ‘Raven.’”

“Miss Darkhölme, I do not have time for games. I—”

“Oh, but you do, I think. Have time, that is. You missed your flight, did you not? Fortuitous for me. This is far more preferable to having to chase you, hmm?”

“’Chase,’” Max repeated. A few coins lay scattered about, lost amongst the cushions. Not the most effective of weapons, but it would not have been the first time he had had to use something so crude.

The escape was the trickier part, but something told him that he couldn’t wait forever on that.

Raven nodded.

“I had planned on making contact with you in America, with you and Doctor Xavier. Ah, but that—”

“What—are you planning to do—with Charles?”

He chewed the words. The springs around him were twisting into sharpened points which now prodded against her back. It was not enough to cause any particular pain, but its presence would definitely be felt.

Her eyes appeared to show some disappointment, but why he could not fathom or, rightfully, presently care. She removed a soft pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one with a match. Smoke snaked out of her nostrils as her demeanor became colder, more professional.

“Mister Eisenhardt, I have come to you as a friend. Do not make me regret this, please.”

She gingerly took the cigarette from her lips and offered it toward him. When he declined, she gave a casual shrug and took another puff.

“As to my plans for Doctor Xavier and yourself, it is simple: I am in need of your assistance in finishing an unresolved matter. Until quite recently, I was an agent of my government and assigned by my government to serve at the behest of an international group who shall, for now, remain nameless. After what I witnessed there, I can no longer, in good conscience, continue my work.”

“So, you want out?”

“ _Non_. While it would still require outside assistance, your expertise would not be suited to that task. No, what I want, and what I require of you both, is this: I need you to finish what you started two decades ago.”

Max’s eyes flashed with recognition, a response which brought a wry smile to her face.

“I need you two to help me finally liberate Genosha.”


End file.
